I’m thinking about all the people not going to bed tonight, as I get ready to rest my head and call it a day. Or an evening, whatever—call it something. I am thinking of the mothers who will be up with hungry babies, and the fathers with sick children, standing in the doorway of bathrooms with a cold washrag in hand, ready to receive a fevered forehead. I am thinking of the summertime soldiers, the middle school freedom, the sleepovers and sleep ins. The friends with scheduled vacation days. I am thinking of one old professor of mine, probably somewhere south and probably in some bar dreaming up his next course on literature. I am thinking of my mother and her television, my sister and her worries. For the insomniacs, I offer you paper, or a book to finish in one sitting, more coffee if the REM is more than far away. For the house across the street, with the second story window light staying on—here is a bulb that will burn for days, weeks, decades. For the ones with inevitable, impending hangovers I offer you glass after glass of water. To the truck drivers I offer you Three Dog Night’s cover of “Try a Little Tenderness” on the last station to the right of the FM dial. For friends visiting family back home, I offer you another late one with blood you barely get to speak to anymore. To the lovers I offer you a warm body under hands, when rest is a forfeit to feeling. The late night diner waitress, I offer you a ride home. To bands traveling, here is a road sign so absurd that in broad daylight it could not be believed. To the cameras with your flashes off, I offer perfect squares of uninterrupted blackness.

see this movie.